The Task
by The Taloned Merlin
Summary: Alphonse's new weakness takes a toll on his mind as he tries to complete a task.


Disclaimer: I do not own FMA.

Review, please! :D

The Task

Alphonse sauntered out into the well-kept back garden where Granny Pinako had left a stack of thick faggots to chop. Edward was still asleep despite the sun that beat down on his dusty windows, so when the old lady grumbled about his laziness, Alphonse had stepped in and offered to take the job. She had peered at him sceptically through her disproportionately large spectacles. "Are you sure, Al? I don't think you're that strong yet. You only came back less than a fortnight ago."

At that Alphonse had taken some offence, though he did not show it, merely smiling and replying amiably that he was quite capable of such a simple task. In any case he could use the exercise; he wanted to train his body so as to be able to beat Edward in combat again. That was, he could see to his dismay, quite a while away.

Rolling up his shirt-sleeves resolutely, he picked up the axe lying in the grass by its rounded wooden handle and felt its weight in his hands. A smile spread across his face as he remembered how he could scarcely tell how heavy an object was when his soul was attached to that suit of armour. In the beginning he had to restrain his strength, as he had unintentionally hurt his brother and his friends because of his carelessness, and it took a few months before he could control that walking tin can to his convenience.

His eyes fell upon the first piece of wood that needed to be cut up. It was gnarled like the skin of a very old person, and Alphonse looked down at his own smooth, young hands, clutching the handle of the axe. The blade was nearly flawless in its craftsmanship, glossy grey and sharp – like his armour that would pierce anyone who cared to come too close to it, good or bad intentions cast aside like useless trinkets. Edward usually got bruised when Alphonse tried to hug him back then, and once the poor boy had cracked a bone.

Alphonse raised the axe above his head, feeling almost like an executioner. The wood may have been knotted and dry, but it was newly felled, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was still a trace of life in that dark brown thing on the chopping board. After all, no one would believe that a suit of armour could have life, but there he had been, walking down the streets like nobody's business.

A drop of sweat dripped down his temple, and he realised he had been holding the axe in the air for nearly a minute. He was about to bring it down when the sharp cry of a crow startled him, and he dropped the instrument; it fell right on his foot and he hissed in pain, kneeling down and cursing. Alphonse enjoyed touching more than most people did; some accused him of being 'too clingy', but he had never cared. This, however, this sharp, throbbing, unpleasant feeling that rushed through his foot and up his calf and that made him shudder despite the heat – this, he had no care for. At first he had been glad he could feel pain, but eventually he realised the one advantage of not having a flesh-and-bone body.

He started to take off his shoe to check the injury, but stopped. If he looked at his foot now, he would feel faint at the sight and go back inside. He did not want to do that; outside, the sun was warm on his back and the unruly grass rippled with the breeze. Surely he could allow himself a few more moments of solitude, which was a rare thing since he usually had his brother hovering about, protective and possessive of Alphonse the way a mother is of her children, perhaps even more so.

But now Edward was not here, and Alphonse could do as he liked. He again lifted the axe, taking vague pleasure at being able to act without his brother's consent, and brought it down into the wood. The cut was jagged and unclean, and the piece of wood fell like a slain soldier to one side. Alphonse huffed in indignation and picked up the second piece. This time, it cut swiftly and deeply, straight through the middle as if someone had used a machine.

He continued his work, and sweat rolled down his cheeks and dripped onto his shirt, now quite grimy with dust. Every time he brought down the axe he felt as if he was murdering someone. There was Colonel Mustang, and Lieutenant Hawkeye, and even the already dead General Hughes, and he laughed to think he could ever do such a thing. The sun seemed to grow unbearably hot, and his hair was sweaty and clung like leeches to his neck. His tender muscles groaned with aches, and his shoulders felt almost numb. By the time he finished half the pile, he was panting heavily. Morosely, he paused and leaned on the axe, and thought of the way Major Armstrong had cut the logs with no trouble at all.

His gaze flitted to the pile of chopped wood, flopped onto the ground, and he felt his head spin, eyes growing hazy. The timber on the grass only needed little arms and legs, and they would be people, lying on their backs helplessly like upturned tortoises. Oh, yes, his brother had lost two of his limbs some five years ago...and...leg...automail.

He remembered swaying but not falling.

He woke to the sound of a fan whirring lazily. Randomly, he remembered it was summer. Then, with a jolt, he opened his eyes and pursed his lips. He was lying in his brother's bed, covered with a duvet, a cool, damp cloth on his forehead. The white cotton curtains were almost fully closed, allowing a sliver of light to spread on the floor.

Coughing dryly, he looked about, and saw that a glass of water had been left on the bedside table. He heaved himself up, feeling weak, and reached for it. The wet rag fell onto his lap. He was downing the water when someone threw open the door, making him sputter.

"Al! You all right?" Edward crossed over to him and thumped him on the back. "You fainted! And you bruised your foot, too! It's nearly black. Winry was bringing you some lemonade and saw you." He sat on the edge of the bed, making the springs creak under his weight. "Lucky for that. How are you feeling now?"

"Okay," Alphonse mumbled, looking at his brother's shadowed face. "Why am I in your bed?" he said, gesturing at his own, neatly made bed at the other end of the room.

"Because it was closer to the door, stupid. You really are an idiot."

Alphonse ignored him, fell back into the rumpled pillows, and turned his head towards the window, wishing miserably that he could look outside. Edward noticed his brother's wistful expression and said, "Are you sure the light won't give you a headache?"

"Anything but," was the reply. Edward complied, and pulled open the curtains with a flourish. "I'm getting you some food. Don't you dare say no," he warned at Alphonse when the younger opened his mouth to protest. "And if you try anything dumb like that again I'll break your bones." It was an empty threat; everyone who was even mildly familiar with the two brothers knew that Edward would (if it were not illegal and the accused unrepentant) badly hurt anyone who harmed Alphonse.

So Alphonse merely smiled up at his brother drowsily, and in return got his hair ruffled. "Back in a sec," called Edward as he left the room. "Expect Winry and the hag to visit soon."

As promised, he was, in a few minutes, surrounded by his family, who buzzed around him like bees and fussed over his appetite and patted his head and scolded him fondly. A tray of hot pottage, buttered bread and roast vegetables lay on his lap, and yet he felt his eyelids grow heavy with fatigue.

And as Winry held a spoonful of stew to his mouth, chattering gaily, Alphonse entwined his fingers and wished he was back in the silent yard, chopping wood.


End file.
